Poison & Wine
by devirnis
Summary: Baird and Sam, before and after, together and apart. The gut-level honest pull and tug of affection and affliction. 30 prompts, 30 oneshots.
1. 1-Beginning

**Author's Note**: Wow, has it really been almost a year already? I guess it has. My bad.

This is going to be a collection of oneshots based on a 30 day writing challenge that was popular on Tumblr a long time ago (last year). So sit back, relax, and enjoy the terribly sporadic updates.

* * *

_**1. beginning**_

The first thing she noticed was the blonde hair. And the goggles.

Sam knew who he was before she ever saw him in person. First he was just the Cole Train's asshole friend. But now he was the asshole who was there for the Lightmass Bomb and the sinking of Jacinto, the asshole in Delta—the squad continually trusted to save the world.

So the goggles and hair colour caught her eye, and she finally put a face to the name on Vectes. Somehow the COG felt a lot smaller after leaving Embry Province. She knew more of the Gears now, and interacted with them more often. Living on a small island would do that. And as a result of the "disagreements" with the local Stranded, Sam found herself out in the field more often. She'd defused IEDs with him watching. They had even exchanged a few casual words.

She didn't know what drew her to him. Maybe it really was as shallow as the hair colour; blondes weren't too common for some reason. Or maybe it was the disinterested bad-boy attitude. Or his reputed intelligence. Whatever attracted her to him in the first place didn't matter. After their last brief encounter, she had decided that it was time to make a move.

When she came into the main mess bar with Frank Muller, she immediately spotted the blonde sitting at the bar. Muller grabbed a table and started setting up for their game, and she went to buy the first round.

He had an almost-empty pint glass in front of him; that was her way in. She paid for two shots and then sidled up beside him.

"Come on, Baird. Don't be an antisocial dick all your life. Take a day off." She slid one of the shot glasses towards him. "Muller's teaching us to play navy chess."

Baird turned and gave her a cold stare. "Oh, that's so exciting. I think I just wet my pants."

She paused, completely taken aback. The acidity in his voice was so unexpected, so uncalled for, that it took a moment before she registered what had happened. Indignity set in seconds later.

"Fuck you, then." She snatched the shot away from him and stalked over to Muller.

Muller hadn't noticed, or he was nice enough to pretend that he hadn't seen anything. He thanked Sam for the shot she shoved his way and started to explain the rules of navy chess. Sam only half-listened, still feeling the sting from Baird's rejection. It bothered her that she was so put off by it. Usually _she_ was the one doing the rejecting; very rarely did someone shut her down. And the _coldness_ of it all made it so much worse. He didn't give a shit about her. He didn't give a shit about anyone except himself, and maybe Augustus Cole.

The game began and Sam forced herself to pay attention. She planned on getting absolutely shit-faced tonight. The last couple days had passed without incident and it had been ages since she just sat down and played a game with friends.

And fuck Damon Baird. That uptight, self-centred little prick of a corporal wasn't worth getting upset over. Vectes might have been a small island but that didn't mean she ever had to speak to the obnoxious bastard ever again.


	2. 2-Accusation

_**2. accusation**_

It's not often that they fight—_really_ fight.

The good-natured bickering is just part of their relationship. Only rarely does it escalate to something truly vicious. When this happens, there is no screaming. In fact it's the opposite: their voices get low and quiet. Hissing at each other instead of shouting. And the game begins.

It's a delicate game, with unspoken rules. They take it in turns, each saying something cruel, something designed to wound, but not something that crosses an invisible line they've established. Whoever can get closest to that line without going over it wins.

If words really could wound, their bodies would be covered in scars.

He doesn't remember what initially sparked this argument. Probably something stupid— that always seems to be the case. Whatever it was, the spat quickly got out of hand. Stress from the week, general moodiness, the fact that they're both stubborn and headstrong—all these fuel the fire. The rational part of him wants to stop. It's stupid, not worth it. He's not really mad at her; she's just become the target for all his frustrations. His sacrifice block, as she once called him. But it's too late. He can't back down now. As horrible as it is, some part of him wants to win.

She accuses him of being heartless. That cuts deep—worse than he expected. It hurts because it comes from _her_, the person who should know better than anyone else just how untrue that statement is. _Heartless._ A lie, a viscous distortion of reality. She knows it's a lie too.

And that should be the end of it. They should huff and storm off to cool down, and then awkwardly slink back and apologize. That's how it should go.

But instead, something else.

There's something he can say. Something that has remained buried in his heart, for a long time now. He once promised himself that he would never say it, but now, in the heat of the moment, it just comes rushing out.

"Heartless? At least that's better than _you_." His voice is acid. "You spent all those months trailing after Dom, wearing your heart on your sleeve. You throwing yourself at him—it was so fucking _pathetic_."

It's like he physically attacked her. The air rushes out of her in one breath. She looks deflated, defeated, stunned. He crossed the line. An apology is forming in his mind when she stomps towards him. He expects a slap or a scream, but this is Sam.

She punches him in the face.

As stars explode in his vision and his head swims, he hears her voice in his ear, quiet and cold. "How could you?"

And then she's gone, the door slamming behind her.

He stands in the middle of the room, appalled. What the hell had he been _thinking_? That was downright malicious, even by his standards. She doesn't deserve that, least of all from him. He knows Dom is a sore spot; he'll _always_ be a wound, one that will open up and bleed again at the slightest scratch.

It was a betrayal to drag Dom's name into this.

Maybe he really is heartless.

* * *

After what he imagines to be an appropriate amount of time, he tiptoes ashamedly to her quarters. He can't blame her for not seeking him out for an admission of remorse. Had the positions been reversed, he wonders if he could forgive her so easily. But he is petty and proud; she is understanding and reasonable.

He slowly opens the door to her room. Peering inside, he sees her sitting on the bed, her back to him. Her shoulders shake with silent sobs, but the movement stops when she hears him enter. Shame washes over him. He's never hurt her this badly before.

As he nears her rigid form, he extends one arm awkwardly. He stands behind her and places a hand on her shoulder in a gesture of peace and culpability. She immediately stiffens at the unwanted touch.

"_Don't._"

It's a slap to the face. He flinches away. Her tone softens slightly. "Just… don't. I can't be around you right now."

"Okay," he murmurs, and leaves.

* * *

Later that night, as he lays in bed alone, he lets the guilt eat away at him. He is a coward, and selfish for expecting her to forgive him on the spot. He half-expects the door to creak open, for her to come slide under the covers while he utters whispered apologies. But she won't come. Not tonight.

They will both spend tonight in their own quarters, mulling over the implications of what he said. There's still resentment and jealousy deep down inside him, and now he knows it can bubble up and spill over at a moment's notice. Ignoring it won't work any longer, but he doesn't know what else he can do.

In the morning he will apologize profusely. He resolves to go out of his way to be agreeable and pleasant, to never upset her in such a way again. But this is a lie. Another fight will happen; more merciless words will be flung across the room. He'll hurt her again.

He never deluded himself into thinking this would be easy.

But he never imagined it could be this hard.


	3. 3-Restless

_**3. restless**_

This could have passed for a luxury vacation in another life. Baird stood on the deck of the ship, enjoying the warm ocean breeze and staring at a sunset that was almost too perfect. But this wasn't a cruise ship; it was CNV _Sovereign_, a Raven's Nest, now serving as a mobile base for the remnant of the COG army. And Baird wouldn't be up on deck at all if it wasn't for his friend.

Beside him, Cole shuddered and made another retching sound. He was leaning over the railing, throwing up his last meal. It made Baird thankful that he wasn't plagued with motion sickness. Michaelson kept optimistically insisting that Cole would get his sea legs soon enough; it'd only been about a week since they've been stationed on _Sovereign_. It would take time to adjust.

There were a few other Gears up on deck, but not so many that Baird felt crowded. The sun was going down and they never knew when they'd be deployed next. People tended to head for their bunks to get some shuteye whenever they had a moment of downtime. Then two familiar faces jumped out at Baird from across the deck: Sam and Dom walked slowly into his line of sight. Baird couldn't help but roll his eyes. Ever since they'd left Vectes, Sam's advances towards Dom had been getting less and less subtle. It rankled Baird.

The two of them stopped walking. They seemed to be having an intense conversation. Baird didn't have to try very hard to imagine what they're talking about. They didn't notice him or Cole. Baird watched them, because what the hell else was he going to do? Besides, if they wanted privacy they should have picked a better spot.

Sam reached towards Dom, but he flinched away. Baird's face twisted into a grimace as he watched the pathetic display unfold in front of him. He didn't pretend to have a strong grasp of relationships and emotions, but he knew a lost cause when he saw one. Dom was too broken. The man had spent a decade looking for his wife—the woman he married at fifteen and fathered two children with—and that ended with him putting a bullet in her head. People didn't just get over shit like that, especially not in a couple months.

Infuriatingly, everybody else _wanted_ them to get together. Marcus, Bernie, Dizzy, Cole—all people who should know better. But apparently Baird was the only one who could see how badly this would end. He understood that people wanted little moments of pleasure in the daily hell they had to face, but this was just utter stupidity. It wouldn't end well for anybody.

The whole thing was just so ludicrous. Couldn't Sam see that? Dom wasn't ready to move on yet. He'd probably _never_ be ready. But she naively pursued him, completely oblivious to what Baird found so obvious. She was just setting herself up for heartbreak. She shouldn't be chasing after Dom; it was a wasted effort. She shouldn't be going after someone who would only ever see her as a replacement. Baird wasn't saying that Dom was a bad guy; he'd just never be able to move past the ghost of his wife. If she wanted a guy, there were plenty of other options. As much as Baird hated to admit it, Sam was a decently nice person, and everyone deserved some amount of happiness in life. There were other men out there for Sam.

_There's me._

Baird tensed up, slamming the breaks on that train of thought. He didn't want Sam; he didn't want Sam _at all_. Everyone on the ship had heard him bitch about being assigned to the same squad as her. Sure, she was hot, but so what? She was a bitch. All leather, tattoos and mouth. They didn't get along at the best of times. He was sure she has come close to punching him out on more than one occasion.

No, he was just being an idiot. He couldn't control what his brain thought. That idea was just a product of hormones. Sam was a nice-looking woman, and it had been far longer than he'd like to admit. There was nothing substantial behind it. Nothing at all. It would never work out. It would never even get off the ground; Sam clearly had her hopes pinned on someone else.

Dom made a gesture, and he and Sam walked away. Baird frowned, watched them go, and then turned back to his seasick friend. Cole groaned and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. He looked up at Baird and furrowed his brow.

"What's eating you?" Cole asked. How could he be so perceptive when he'd just been puking his guts out?

Baird shrugged. "Just tired."

Baird could see that Cole didn't buy it, but he knew better than to press when Baird didn't want to talk. "Well, I think my stomach's pretty much empty. Let's go see if anyone's up for some poker in the mess."

Baird nodded and followed Cole back down into the ship. He wasn't particularly fond of cards, but he had a great poker face.


	4. 4-Snowflake

[Sorry for the delay, friend - let's just say it's been a hectic couple of weeks. TL;DR graduating entails a lot more than just finishing courses with good grades. Anyway. Next week is reading break at my university, so hopefully I'll be able to write more.

Thank you for your patience!]

* * *

_**4. snowflake**_

Sam's surprised when it happens, but she really shouldn't be. Imitation is the sincerest form of flattery, or so she's been told. And who better to imitate than a man who was present for the deployment of the imulsion countermeasure weapon that had ended the Locust war and the Lambent pandemic in one fell swoop?

The first one to start is a boy from Jacinto. He joins the army on his sixteenth birthday. His name is Logan. Days after Sam first meets him, she sees him again—only this time he's sporting a pair of blue goggles. Sam grins at the gesture. She wonders if Baird will find it cute.

He doesn't.

When she meets up with him in his room later, he is clearly annoyed. At first she thinks someone said something particularly stupid to him earlier, but it quickly becomes apparent that it's the boy who has Baird in such a bad temper. Muttered phrases like "frigging copy cat" and "little shit" tip her off.

"I think it's flattering," she says in an attempt to pacify him.

"Oh,_ flattering_, is it?"

Sam has to concentrate to keep her face straight. He's acting like a petulant child—but then again that's not really new.

To his credit, the boy sticks to his reverence of Baird, despite the latter's evident irritability whenever his admirer is around. Sam wonders if she should intercede, but a flustered and agitated Baird never fails to put her in a good mood. She wins more arguments. She expects Baird to relent eventually and give in to the obvious ego boost, but he shows no signs of getting over his irrational dislike of Logan.

Sam talks about it with Cole. His uncanny insight into his friend's mind is always appreciated.

"I thought he'd be thrilled," she sighs, as they watch Baird shoot glares at Logan across the crowded mess.

Cole shrugs. "He likes praise, sure. But the goggles have always been his _thing_, like Marcus's do-rag, or Dizzy's hat. It's supposed to be uniquely his."

"So, what, he thinks the kid's trying to steal his identity?"

Cole chuckles. "It does sound pretty silly."

But Sam feels that this is important; she mentally files it away for later, before continuing the conversation. "I just can't figure out why Logan would choose Baird of all people to idolize. He's kind of a tosspot."

Cole raises his eyebrows at her. "Pot calling the kettle black, don'tcha think?"

"I don't _idolize_ him. If anything I know when to take him down a peg."

"And that's been good for him."

Sam grins, and glances over at Baird. Logan and the goggles have disappeared, but this doesn't stop Baird from scowling down at his plate. "I will admit, I am fond of that man."

Cole shrugs. "You're the one who has to deal with him. Good luck, Sammy."

* * *

After a week she decides to bring it up again. Tactfully.

They are alone in her quarters, getting ready to settle down for the night. Baird stands at the small sink in the corner, his back facing her, while she lounges on her bed, already in her jarmies (as she calls them, because she knows how he _hates_ that word). It's a wonderfully relaxed atmosphere, and Sam knowingly shatters it with one short sentence.

"Seen Logan around lately?"

Baird stiffens and she has her answer. But she is no longer content to sit back and watch (and listen) to him complain about such a trivial matter. If she has to tear into him and rip out the problem with her fist, so be it.

"Why do you want to know?" he asks finally.

"Oh, no reason," she says in an airy voice. "I'm just wondering how much longer you're going to sulk because a teenager pissed you off."

He turns slowly to look at her. She expects an incensed expression on his face, but instead she sees astonishment, like he's shocked that she can't comprehend his anger.

"Do you seriously not understand why that little runt gets under my skin?" He shakes his head. "What if some kid started wearing a green headband every day? How would you feel then?" He folds his arms across his chest as if he's beaten her.

"Wouldn't bother me. Unlike _some people_, I can take a compliment."

"It's not a frigging _compliment_, it's an _insult_!"

It would be easy to blow up at him—at the ludicrousness of the whole situation—but she figures that won't be a productive approach. Besides, she really _does_ want to reconcile Baird to Logan. The kid's in the army for the long haul, and she doesn't think she can take a drawn-out rivalry.

"Baird, come on. Tell me what's really going on."

He frowns at her, clearly deciding if he should throw another fit or not. Then his shoulders sag in defeat and he slumps over to the bed. He sits down next to her, but avoids meeting her gaze.

"I get that it's kind of stupid, okay? It's just…" He rubs the back of his neck, a telltale sign of self-consciousness. "God, this sounds so childish. The goggles are _my thing_. I've worn them since even before I enlisted. Pissed my parents off to no end, so that was a bonus. And to see some random kid appropriate the thing that's been part of me for so long, it just feels… I dunno, weird."

That he's actually opened up, Sam takes as a significant victory. She'll have to remember this the next time she's furious with him. To show her appreciation and sympathy, she stretches a hand out and grasps his wrist.

"You know when people look at Logan they think of you, right? It's bloody obvious that he's imitating a certain asshole mechanic."

He shoots her a look and she smiles sweetly.

"Yeah?"

"Yeah." She gives him a supportive squeeze. "You're a special snowflake, Damon Baird."

His nose wrinkles in disgust. "You did _not_ just call me that."

"That's what you want to hear, isn't it? That you're _so_ terribly unique and wonderful?"

"Stop it."

Laughing at his embarrassment, she elects to relent. Instead, she gives his wrist a firm tug, pulling him down onto his back. "Well, now that I've solved this existential crisis, I think it's time for a good night's sleep. I'm in my jarmies."

He rolls his eyes. "Please stop calling them that. _Pyjamas_. God, you sound like a frigging five year-old."

As she reaches over to turn out the light, she smirks at him. "Hey, I'm a special snowflake too."


	5. 5-Haze

_**5. haze**_

Sam enters Baird's room to find him sitting on the bed, cleaning his armour. She rolls her eyes in disgust; cleaning is a weekday job, recurrent and mind-numbingly boring. So _of course_ on a beautiful night like tonight—the start of the first weekend they've both been off-duty in nearly a month—she would find her boyfriend polishing his armour. Antisocial prick. They should be down at the mess getting rip-roaring drunk—but she sees that he's already changed into his sweats. There'll be no getting him out of the room now.

Luckily she's come prepared.

She kicks the door shut with a little too much gusto and saunters towards the bed. Annoyingly, Baird hasn't looked up yet. Doesn't matter. She can still save this night. Taking the board she's carrying out from under her arm, she slams it down on the floor with enough force to get his attention. She puts the moonshine down with much more care. Baird flicks his eyes up and gives her an irritated look, as if interrupting his cleaning regimen is the worst thing she could have possibly done.

"Where's your alcohol?" she asks, aware that she's slurring her words slightly. The few pints she had with Dizzy earlier are showing.

"Why?" he returns warily. At least he doesn't question how she knows about his cache. She would hate to admit to snooping.

"Because, _darling_," she says as she gets to her feet (she knows he keeps a bottle of rum at the back of his closet), "I'm going to teach you how to play navy chess."

Baird heaves a sigh, but he's stopped rubbing at his chest piece. "It's not chess, it's checkers. And why would I want to learn how to play this game?"

"Because." Her hand grasps the neck of the rum bottle, hidden poorly behind a pile of wrinkled clothes. "You owe me a game."

She turns around just in time to see the pained expression on his face. So he hasn't forgotten about that time on Vectes. Good. She doesn't want (or need) an apology, but a little acknowledgement of how much of a dick he was is always welcome. Baird slides onto the floor, crosses his legs and looks resigned. Now that's more like it.

"Okay, let's do this."

"Great!" Sam claps her hands together. "Now go get us twenty-four shot glasses."

* * *

Half an hour later they are finally actually ready to play the game. It would have been sooner if Baird hadn't spent nearly ten minutes arguing about who should go hunting for shot glasses. The delightful spinning sensation in Sam's head is starting to fade, and she snaps at him to set up the board some time this century.

Baird rolls his eyes and continues pouring the rum at his methodical pace. Sam huffs and snatches the moonshine away from him. If she helps then maybe they can start the game before the sun starts to come up. After they finish pouring out the shots, Baird demands to be the moonshine pieces.

"If my rum's getting drunk, it might as well be me doing the drinking."

Sam can't complain. "White moves first, then."

And they start.

Because Sam is actually more sober than she's letting on, she notices that Baird is taking it easy on her. Genius mind like his must have the next five moves planned out already. She doesn't get angry though; he has some catching up to do. So when she takes his first piece she grins triumphantly, like it was sheer dumb luck and not strategy. Baird knocks the shot back quickly and goes back to analyzing the board.

Her boyfriend is maddeningly slow at navy chess. The whole bloody point of the game is to get absolutely shitfaced. It doesn't matter who "wins", the real winners are the ones who get so drunk they forget there was even a game to begin with. But Baird's pathological need to be the best is coming out in full force, driving Sam to the point of insanity when it takes him longer than a minute to make a move.

"Oh for fuck's sake, would you _just go_?" she snaps eventually.

Baird flashes her a winning smile, and doesn't move for another thirty seconds.

* * *

The real fun happens when they forget who an empty shot glass belongs to.

"It's mine," Baird insists.

"Nope, definitely mine." Sam is adamant. She _knows_—she was watching. Five moves back when she moved that glass herself.

"You liar," he says. His cheeks are starting to flush—a good sign. "'S mine, I remember."

"Keep telling yourself that. Just remember that you're the one has to live with the knowledge that you cheated to win."

His face goes red, from more than just the alcohol. He hates it when people question his intelligence, and Sam is doing just that by insisting that he's cheating (which he is). "_Fine_. Take the fucking glass then. I don't give a fuck."

Oh, he's pissed now. Sam has to fight to hold back a smile. She uses the contested piece to take the last full shot of rum. "Drink up, loser." And she toasts him with the empty glass for good measure.

Baird scowls at her and snatches the rum off the board. He downs it in one gulp and jerks his head as the rum burns down his throat. And now Sam decides to make the move she's been waiting for since the game started. As Baird looks back at her, clearly furious, she puts on her best sultry expression. His anger cracks for a second as his eyes sweep up and down her body. She leans forward slightly, taking advantage of the way her shirt gapes. That catches his attention.

"Y'know, I'm a little sad. I never got to taste the rum."

Baird cocks his head. "Rum's gone, Byrne. Unless you want to go raid the mess bar… uh… what're you…"

Sam crawls forward—over the board, knocking the empty shot glasses over—licking her lips with meaning. Under less drunken circumstances, she would cringe at how much she resembles a cat. And Baird would crack a joke about her being an animal. But these are very drunken circumstances. Her inhibitions (what few she has when sober) are gone, and his brain can't work fast enough to tease her.

She stops inches from Baird's face, and his slow, expectant exhale settles on her skin. "Can I have a taste?"

"You forced me to drink it," he retorts with a lopsided smile that she thinks is supposed to be charming.

Her hand reaches out and grabs the back of his neck. "Come here, you stupid bastard." And she smashes their mouths together without another thought.

* * *

She knows she's awake when she becomes hyperaware of the churning in her stomach and the pounding in her head. As the feeling slowly ebbs back into her body, she realizes she's on the floor—and has been for a while, judging by the aching of her hip. The blanket off Baird's bed is splayed across her body. And she's naked. So the previous evening must have ended well.

Turning her head slowly, she sees Baird passed out beside her. His hair is tousled and messy, and he's sporting a nice series of hickeys on his neck. She smirks as she imagines his fury when he looks in a mirror. Those are going to be hard to hide. As if sensing her gaze, he begins to twitch and groan. The room is starting to spin, so Sam lies back down.

Baird's eyes open for a split second, and then shut immediately at the blinding light. "My head… Ugh, what did you _do _to me?"

She smiles sweetly at him. "What, never had a hangover before?"

"Not on Dizzy's moonshine. Fuck." He goes to sit up, and then evidently thinks better of it. Instead he drapes an arm over his face and groans again. "Shit, I can barely remember last night. It's all hazy."

"I remember beating your sorry arse at navy chess."

"_Checkers_," he insists. His pathological need to be right is equal parts endearing and infuriating. "And might I add that it speaks volumes to my skills that you had to get me drunk to beat me."

She elbows him, perhaps a little harder than necessary. "Hey, I was pretty off my face too. It was an even playing field."

"Ha, you wish." A few moments of silence pass before he continues. "You should go get us some coffee."

"Me? Why not you?"

He lifts his arm up to glare at her. "_You_ did this to me. I'm just going to stay here for the rest of the day."

Instead of getting up, Sam rolls across the floor, taking the blanket with her. Baird lets out a long suffering sigh and pushes himself onto his elbows. He gives her an unimpressed look. "I hate you."

"I know you do," she retorts. And grins.


End file.
